


We Need A Thrill

by gaialux



Category: Rebel Without a Cause (1955)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, M/M, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim still wins the chickie run -- only this time Buzz doesn't die, and it's the two of them who find their way to the mansion for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Need A Thrill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cjmarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/gifts).



> Such an intriguing pairing idea, and I hope you enjoy this. A couple of dialogue lines taken from the film. Thanks to lanalucy for the beta. Happy yuletide!

They always move before holidays. It takes Jim a while to notice — and his mother would never admit to it — but he finds himself at a new school after every Christmas and Spring break, so it's impossible to keep playing fool. This time it's Easter and he'll be facing Dawson High in the morning. Not that he would be getting any sleep tonight; he'd given up on that a while ago.

There's always something to do in new towns the locals either don't know about or turn a blind eye to. It's not like Jim ever seeks out trouble. No. It's just that trouble needs a victim and Jim happens to be there.

He leans over to look out his window, but it's too dark to make much out. Easier to just go downstairs and out the door like he always does. No matter how many places they move to, his parents will never notice when he leaves. He hardly thinks they care when he returns, even though they put on shows and attempt to pretend.

Jim pads silently from his room to the back door and out into the crisp late-night — or early morning, he hadn't checked the clock — air. He could think out here, he decides, if there were anything worth thinking about. Most of the time he just worked on keeping a clear mind because his thoughts, through no conscious effort of his own, always went back to knowing he was going to hurt someone. He didn't know why. It just wouldn't leave. Too much pent up anger he can feel coursing all the way down to his clenched fists. He released them, but the feeling stayed.

 

* * *

 

There are a lot of people in the police station that night. The girl in the red jacket, the boy who refuses his jacket, and another boy who walks by in leather.

Jim doesn't know why he remembers them by jacket or lack thereof. Just that he does.

 

* * *

 

The bluff stretches out wider than Jim can see in the dark, and likely even in the daylight. He sees the shadow of waves lapping up against the jagged rock outlines. _You'd die down there._ There was no other way about it.

He lights a cigarette with hands that want to clench. The nicotine does nothing to stop the perspiration building on his neck and sliding down. It's too cold for this. Too cold to be outside in the first place, staring over a cliff and imagining what will happen if one doesn't jump.

Buzz plucks the cigarette from Jim's mouth and Jim watches Buzz press it past his own lips before blowing out a puff of smoke into the black air.

"You know something?" Buzz says. He points at Jim, cigarette held between two fingers. "I like you, you know that?"

Jim's not sure how he's supposed to respond to that beyond taking the cigarette back and keeping his eyes on the bluff. He does sneak a gaze at Buzz, but it's too dark to read anything there.

"Why do we do this?" he asks.

"You've gotta do something, don't you?" Buzz shrugs and that leather jacket he's still got on reveals red lining underneath. Yellow on red on black. Or the other way around if you're so inclined. He walks away behind Jim.

Jim keeps staring at the bluff for a little longer.

_You'd die down there._

 

* * *

 

Now Jim's sitting in a stolen car.

On some philosophical level he's trying to figure out just how he's ended up here, but then he catches sight of Buzz talking to Judy a few feet away and the repetition of "chicken, chicken" combined with the still stinging wound on his stomach plays over and over in his mind. So he calls Judy to him and rubs dirt into his palms in a mirror image of Buzz. He doesn't really think it will give him any kind of advantage, but Buzz is the type of kid who needs to be psyched out. Jim's met enough of them over the course of his life.

"Hit your lights!" Buzz calls, and all those school boys he's turned into robots oblige. It's no different than being told what to do by their parents. They just think it is.

Jim grips the wheel before telling himself to calm down. He's got this. Especially when he glances over and sees Buzz working a comb through his hair. It's all an act for Buzz — Jim knows it is. Jim leans forward and catches sight of Judy in the middle of all those obnoxious yellow headlight beams. Waits for her signal. Checks his door again. Notices that his hands are still gripping the wheel too tight but pushes that thought down and away.

It's sudden when Judy's arms drop, but Jim's on reflex. Foot slamming down on the accelerator as the car lurches out. Judy's a speck in the distance but then she's right next to him, spinning around as he keeps going. Buzz is the only thing that stays at a steady pace; almost slow-motion every time Jim glances over at him. The comb is now clenched in his teeth and he looks at ease like this, even going high speed toward the edge of a cliff.

Jim's hand flirts against the door handle while the other stays on the wheel. Buzz, edge, Buzz, edge. Eyes whipping back and forth between those two places of interest until it's too close, he's going to fall.

But he keeps going. Clears more space. He looks over again at Buzz, who doesn't look the same as before — seems to be struggling now, tearing at his jacket. Eyes back ahead. Back on Buzz. Then suddenly there's no Buzz to the right. Jim yanks the car door open and rolls out into the damp grass as he watches the two cars fly into the ravine.

It's only then he hears the sirens. When he turns back he can also catch sight of the blue and red flashing through the trees. Footsteps around him begin to thunder as Jim struggles to his feet, people rushing by and the slam of car doors.

 _Cops_ , Jim's mind finally supplies. _Stolen cars — get the hell out of here._

He's on his feet and trying to reorient himself when something comes out and grips his shoulder. He spins around, expecting to face a police officer, but instead it's Buzz, who's dragging him somewhere Jim doesn't even know until sticks are scraping against his face.

"What are you—"

Buzz cuts him off with a sharp squeeze to his shoulder and Jim shuts up. Through the breaks in the branches and leaves Jim can see three police cars pull up, their sirens cutting off but lights still flashing. Everyone else has split. There's only two cars left, and that's exactly where the cops go to investigate.

They're screwed.

He tries to stay completely still and cringes when a shift of weight makes a twig snap. A flashlight floats over them — how long can a kid get for driving a stolen car, anyway? — before trailing back along the ground. Buzz is breathing heavy beside him.

"Hello!" one of the officers calls. "Anyone out there? It's okay — you can come out."

_Yeah, right._

How much time passes isn't clear, but Buzz doesn't let go of Jim's shoulder during the wait. Jim doesn't dare even try to shift his weight again. He stays stock-still, listening to the police continue to stalk out the area. Jim considers, at least for a moment, going out there. Asking to see Fremick and trying to explain it all to him —

_But what's there to explain? He'd gotten into the stolen car, driven it off the bluff, and run when things got hot._

— Eventually, though, Jim hears car engines start up again.

He counts to ten before he lets his knee drop to the ground and take the pressure from his thighs. Buzz's hand slides from his shoulder and rests near Jim's own hand. It's dark through the bushes; Jim can't even see the stars. He turns back to Buzz.

"Why didn't you leave the cops to catch me?" Jim asks.

"I told you," Buzz says. Jim's eyes have just started to adjust enough to make out his features. "I like you."

It makes as much sense as anything else has tonight.

They both step back out into the clearing and look around. It's desolate except for the two of them and their cars. Jim takes a step toward his own, but pauses.

"We can't," he says. "They have our plates."

Even in the dark, Jim can see Buzz's face drop.

"Then what do we do?" Buzz asks.

And, just like that, he's fallen to the same place Jim is. The new, unaware kid who doesn't know not to stand on the Dawson High emblem.

Not that Jim has an answer.

He looks back out toward the bluff and then turns a circle, slow and wide, to see more night sky stretching out. Far in the distance, the only thing he can make out is the outlines of that mansion Plato pointed out earlier. Told Jim, _"It's a big mansion and we could sneak around there and they wouldn't even know."_

Jim turns back to look at Buzz and considers his options. Which, really, come down to three things: go home and get busted, stay here and wait for...nothing, or go somewhere else. The somewhere else potentially being that mansion.

It doesn't take long to decide on the right course of action.

 

* * *

 

The window at the mansion's door has already been smashed. It's a simple matter of Jim slotting his arm through without getting it caught on a spike of glass, and pushing the handle. The door swings open and Jim walks inside, Buzz just a single step behind him.

Plato said he'd visited this place before, but it doesn't look like anyone has stepped foot in the mansion for years. Dust and cobwebs coat every visible surface and the winding staircase off to the left has some wood fallen away. That's the direction Jim goes in, and he doesn't need to look back to know Buzz is following him.

"Here," Buzz says.

Jim turns to see Buzz holding a candelabra. Its light encompasses them enough to throw shadows as they walk, lets them avoid the broken steps and upturned nails. They spiral up, up, as Jim's hand slides along the chipped banister. The candle flame flickers on the wall beside him, and Jim watches both their silhouettes move.

They're on a landing and Buzz gives a low, appreciative whistle. It's huge — just like the bluff from earlier. Sheets cover everything worth potentially looking at and Jim kicks up dust at every step. He walks toward one of the arched windows and looks down into the open courtyard, sees a pool and not much else.

"How long do you think we'll need to be here?" Buzz asks. He places the candelabra down on what looks like may be a piano and joins Jim by the window.

Jim shrugs. "Cops think worse of kids, don't they?"

He turns and leans back against the windowsill. A draft catches under his sleeves and he tugs them down. He watches Buzz make his way across the room again; falling into the shadows when he stands against a wall, flitting back into view as he passes across the middle of the floor.

"What are you looking for?" Jim calls. His voice echoes, all through the mansion he's sure.

"Nothing," Buzz says, voice bouncing across the walls as well. "The owners could make some decent dough selling this place. I don't get why they haven't."

"You telling me your town hasn't made this into a landmark?"

Buzz throws a glance at Jim over his shoulder. "I didn't even know it existed until you told me."

"Really?"

"Nope," Buzz says. He trails a hand along the wall. "Never thought to come this far out until—"

He's cut off by a sheet collapsing to the ground, sending up another cloud of dust and dirt. Buzz goes into a coughing fit and then, as the air clears away, drops to sit on top of it.

"I'm already filthy," he says, splaying out his arms. The yellow of his shirt is prominent against the other dark colors.

Jim shrugs and joins him there on that sheet. May as well wait it out in the closest possible thing to comfort.

 

* * *

 

Time ticks by with no possible way to tell. It's still dark outside those grimy windows, and the candles are starting to leak wax as fire consumes half their length. Buzz manages to conserve at least some of their use — the final two cigarettes from his packet pressed between both their lips. They've fallen into a conversation that Jim doesn't know the starting point of. Just that they're here now and he really doesn't want to look at Buzz while he says any of the words he's been speaking.

"At least you got your old man around," Buzz is saying. Jim can hear the scoff in his voice. "Mine shot through years ago. Can still remember him, though — makes it worse I think."

Jim still can't get over the first image of his father that always comes to mind: the guy who sits at the kitchen table and never speaks up, never shares his thoughts unless he's trying to buddy-up with Jim on something. It makes him mad, so goddamn mad, and he thinks — finally, maybe — he's figured out where all that anger and aggression comes from.

"So you drive cars off cliffs for fun?" Jim asks. He tries not to let it appear so transparent that he's trying to find some common link between him and Buzz. To tell Jim he's normal. That he's just a regular kid.

"Something like that."

It's more exciting than any of the other drunken activities Jim has encountered with moving around the States. Buzz takes a harsh inhale of smoke, tip glowing red, and shivers.

"What happened to your jacket back there, anyway?" Jim asks.

Buzz smiles sardonically. "Let's just say calm and casual isn't always the way to go."

He doesn't get it, but doesn't ask. Jim unzips and shrugs out of his own jacket, holding it out to Buzz.

Buzz shakes his head.

"Take it," Jim says to no response. "Really. Come on."

Another moment's hesitation before Buzz tentatively reaches out and accepts the jacket from Jim's grasp. He tugs it on one arm and slides it along his back to the other, though by that point it's stretched tight and hardly fits. Jim cracks a grin and soon dissolves into laughter.

"Hey," Buzz says. "You offered."

Jim's still laughing. "I did."

Buzz rolls his eyes and pushes Jim's arm, but he keeps the ill-fitting jacket on.

"Wish it had buttons," Jim says.

"Why?"

"Like you told me — 'cut off a button and you get to join the club'."

"Oh." Buzz looks contemplative for a moment, then settles his gaze on Jim. "Think you already managed that, Toreador."

"Yeah," he says. "I'd hope so."

This night should at least let him fit in with the kids. His parents would be mad, but what else was new? Nothing lost, only gained. It seems like a good trade off to Jim.

Next to him, Buzz shifts and slumps further down on the sheet. The jacket rides up over his forearms and the collar past his ears, until all Jim's seeing is eyes and the curve of nose.

"What do we do after this?" Jim asks. "What tops it?"

Buzz blows out more smoke. The tendrils float up toward the high ceiling but disappear before they reach. "Maybe we don't do anything — maybe this is our ultimate."

Jim studies Buzz for a moment. "It could be worse."

"So do we go back?" Buzz asks. His fingertips are tracing lines in the dusty floor. No real shapes Jim can make out, but artwork all the same.

"We could wait," Jim says. "The world might end at dawn."

"I doubt we'd have that kind of luck." Buzz stretches out and his arm ends up splayed against Jim's hip. He doesn't seem to notice, and Jim says nothing.

The cigarette in Jim's hand has broken away to a nub of ash and he snuffs it out on the floor. Maybe they should go back and face the music. The inevitable. It's not like he has any priors — not enough to send him to court at least, right? — but he glances over at Buzz and thinks better of it. He's not going to throw him into that.

Besides, it's not so bad. It's peaceful and quiet here. For the first time in a long while, Jim can just clear his mind. Buzz looks the same with his eyes softly turned toward the roof and a small smile just tugging at the sides of his mouth. Surrounded in a halo of the remaining smoke-fog that hangs in the still air.

The silence seems to grow taut. Jim's heartbeat picks up but he can't pinpoint why. He swallows down and tries to think of what to say next, but nothing comes. There's no point complaining about his family, because Buzz already gets it. He doesn't need any more details. He looks closer at Buzz. Lets a beat pass. Then—

He leans over and kisses Buzz square on the mouth. He doesn't know why. His lips taste like cigarettes and, when Jim pulls back, Buzz's eyebrows are pressed together. Jim prepares to run.

"Why did you do that?" Buzz asks.

He swallows again, licks over dry lips. "I felt like it."

"Huh," Buzz murmurs. He shuffles over a little on the sheet, and his leg is pressed against Jim's now. Warm enough that Jim's forgotten his lack of a jacket.

Outside the shattered windows, the sun is beginning to rise.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a non-promised sequel for this I'd like to work on for NYR - I really liked your prompt and all the potential ideas that came from it!


End file.
